Although his interest in Grayson's speeches and his devout admiration did not decrease, Plover's melancholy grew, and Harley by-and-by learned the cause of it from another man, somewhat similar in aspect, but larger of figure and stronger of face. "To tell you the truth, mister," said the man, with the easy freedom of the West, "Billy Plover--and my cousin he is, twice removed--my name's Sandidge--is runnin' away." "Running away?" exclaimed Harley, in surprise. "Where's he running to, and what's he running from?" "Where he's runnin' to, I don't know--California, or Washington, or Oregon, I guess. But I know mighty well what he's runnin' away from; it's his wife." "Ah, a family trouble?" said Harley, whose delicacy would have caused him to refrain from asking more. But the garrulous cousin rambled on. "It's a trouble, and it ain't a trouble," he continued. "It's the weather and the crops, or maybe because Billy 'ain't had no weather nor no crops, either. You see, he's lived for the last ten years on a quarter-section out near Kalapoosa, with his wife, Susan, a good woman and a terrible hard worker, but the rain's been mighty light for three seasons, and Billy's wheat has failed every time. It's kinder got on his temper, and, as they 'ain't got any children to take care of, Billy he's been takin' to politics. Got an idea that he can speak, though he can't, worth shucks, and thinks he's got a mission to whack Wall Street, though I ain't sure but what Wall Street don't deserve it. Susan says he ain't got any business in politics, that he ought to leave that to better men, an' stay an' wrastle with the ground and the weather. So that made them take to spattin'." "And the upshot?" "Waal, the upshot was that Billy said he could stand it no longer. So last night he raked up half the spare cash, leavin' the rest and the farm and stock to Susan, an' he loped out. But first he said he had to hear Jimmy Grayson, who is mighty nigh a whole team of prophets to him, and, as Jimmy's goin' west, right on his way, he's come along. But to-night, at Jimmy's last stoppin'-place, he leaves us and takes a train straight to the coast. I'm sorry, because if Susan had time to see him and talk it over--you see, she's the man of the two--the whole thing would blow over, and they'd be back on the farm, workin' hard, and with good times ahead." Harley was moved by this pathetic little tragedy of the plains, the result of loneliness and hard times preying upon the tempers of two people. "Poor devil!" he thought. "It's as his cousin says; if Susan could only be face to face with him for five minutes, he'd drop his foolish idea of running away and go home." Then of that thought was born unto him a great idea, and he immediately hunted up the cousin again. "Is Kalapoosa a station on the telegraph line?" he asked. "Oh yes." "Would a telegram to that point be delivered to the Plover farm?" "Yes. Why, what's up?"